


desire

by novoaa1



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cersei Lannister (mentioned) - Freeform, Dragonstone, Episode: s07e03 The Queen's Justice, F/F, POV Sansa Stark, Ramsay Bolton (Mentioned) - Freeform, Wine, daenerys likes her and she likes daenerys back, it's cute, sansa meets daenerys, sansas a traumatized lil baby, um
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 02:26:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19368163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: “Will you dine with me, Lady Stark?" Daenerys questions after a brief silence, seeming oblivious to the curious glances both Tyrion and Missandei send her way as a result.Well-versed in royal decorum, Sansa knows very well she cannot say 'No'… and yet, there lies something within her, a kindling of desire she thought long dead (surely well before Ramsay Bolton ever laid eyes upon her), that urges her to say ‘Yes,’ urges her toknowthe Dragon Queen with silver hair and a warm smile, in such a way she has never truly known another before.It births uneasiness in her heart, an uncomfortable churning in her gut—and yet, she nods, bowing her head graciously, never one to disobey a Queen’s command. "I would be honored, Your Grace."Or: Just another canon-divergent meeting between Sansa and Daenerys based on 7x03 at Dragonstone, where Sansa is sent as an emissary for the North in Jon's place.





	desire

**Author's Note:**

> random idea, wrote this instead of sleeping, you know how it goes.... 
> 
> anyways, hope you like :))

Sansa sighs quietly to herself, observing the large, intimidating structure of Dragonstone before her, taking scant comfort in the sound of the cool lapping waves of Blackwater Bay behind her.

 

She feels Davos eyeing her warily, knows he can sense her discomfort—but, she holds her head high and continues on after Tyrion and Missandei as if undeterred, unwilling to allow herself the hollow comforts of foolhardy solidarity with the Onion Knight, particularly not whilst it seeks to distract her from what lies ahead. 

 

A moment’s later, Tyrion curbs his gait to fall in stride with her, his intelligent green eyes watching her intently from below—imparting a slow exhale through her nostrils, she resolves to break the lingering silence.

 

“It has been quite some time, my Lord.”

 

Tyrion chuckles, uneasy yet genuine. “It has, Lady Stark. You look well. Would it be mistaken of me to presume you have fared well since our betrothal?”

 

Sansa allows something of a forced smile to quirk at her lips, valiantly battling the violent flashes of Ramsay and Petyr and Lisa Arryn from her presence of mind. 

 

“It would not,” she replies graciously. 

 

By the perusing stare she receives from Tyrion in response, she knows her disquiet has not gone unnoticed. 

 

Still, he merely nods—for that, she is grateful. “I am glad for you.”

 

“And what of yourself?” she questions, keen to shift the attentions off her grim past. “Hand of the Queen is no small task.”

 

Tyrion bows his head, seeming pleased, though the knowing gleam in his eye tells her he sees readily through her deflection—not that she would expect anything less, of course. 

 

“It is not, yet I enjoy it,” he answers, humoring her. "Far beyond any other appointment I have ever held. Queen Daenerys is… exceedingly benevolent.”

 

Sansa raises a single brow. “Attempting to work me so soon?” she quips in a rare show of pleasantry. "I have only just arrived, my Lord.”

 

Tyrion chuckles. “I would not dream of presenting you with such foolish trickery, my Lady—this, I promise.”

 

“Promises,” Sansa muses, allowing a flicker of coldness to cross her features. “I do not deal in such impetuous accords. No longer, as it may be.”

 

Tyrion’s brow furrows. “I—"

 

His speech is suspended by an ear-splitting shriek from the heavens, one that has Ser Davos immediately taking to the ground even whilst Sansa remains frozen in place, paralyzed of her own accord—then, the screeching beast is sailing overhead in imposing fashion, its considerably broad figure casting a similarly far-reaching (yet fleeting) shadow upon the island as it flies swiftly ahead and out of sight. 

 

At this, Missandei turns back. “You have met Drogon, one of Queen Daenerys’ many children. ‘Mhysa,’ they call her.”

 

“The dragons speak, do they?” Ser Davos remarks gruffly from his crouched stance, eyeing Missandei with scarcely concealed panic.

 

Missandei just smiles generously, hands clasped before her, brown-eyed gaze unwavering. “I am referring, of course, to the slaves of Mereen—amongst others. Drogon, Viserion, and Rhaegal are but three of countless who call Queen Daenerys ‘Mother.’”

 

Sansa nods politely even whilst Davos grunts from the ground, evidently unsatisfied with Missandei’s placid expansion. 

 

The olive-skinned woman tilts her head curiously towards Sansa for a moment, then turns to continue their tread towards the towering walls of Dragonstone up ahead whilst the beastly creatures soar by intermittently up above, every swooping pass causing Ser Davos to flinch at Sansa’s side. 

 

“Bloody dragons,” he grumbles testily as the armored guards flanking the doorway grant them entry. 

 

No one troubles themselves with granting him an answer.

 

— — 

 

Sansa forces her gait to remain steady as she enters the throne room beside Ser Davos in the wakes of Tyrion and Missandei, as she catches sight of Queen Daenerys herself seated primly atop her throne, back straight, sea-blue eyes (tinged sparingly with a forest-like green) observing their approach with cool disinterest.

 

Idly, Sansa takes notice of the fact that Queen Daenerys truly is a beauty, as many say—angular features, wide and alluring green-blue eyes, a pert prettily-sloped nose, and full pink lips that form an elegant pout. Her skin is milky-pale and smooth, her hair fair and white as snow, curled scrupulously into beauteous waves that tumble gracefully down her back.

 

Sansa averts her gaze when Queen Daenerys’ beguiling eyes come to rest on hers, suddenly grateful for the years of hardship and cruelty that allow her to hide the blush tinging her cheeks. 

 

Meanwhile, Tyrion and Missandei take their places on either side of the Queen, their expressions solemn. 

 

It is Missandei who speaks first: “You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, rightful heir to the Iron Throne, rightful Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the Mother of Dragons… "

 

The titles stretch on for quite some time, and Sansa can feel Ser Davos growing restless at her side. 

 

At last, when Missandei has finished with Queen Daenerys’ long-winded title, Davos inhales a sharp breath, eyes darting from Sansa to Queen Daenerys and back again with unmistakable apprehension. 

 

After a protracted moment, he coughs awkwardly into his gloved hand, clearing his throat—the sound echoes in the scarcely occupied space. “This is Sansa Stark. Er—" he coughs once more. “Lady of Winterfell.”

 

Queen Daenerys raises a single brow, ostensibly unimpressed, even as Sansa sees Tyrion suppress a grin. 

 

“You have travelled far, my Lord and Lady. I thank you for that—I hope the seas were not too rough.”

 

Sansa grants a nods, the movement quick and concise. “The winds were kind. Thank you, Your Grace.”

 

“Now, with the pleasantries out of our way, I would deign to broach the heart of our meeting, if that pleases you, Lady Stark.”

 

“It does, Your Grace.”

 

“You see, I never did receive a formal education—a matter I find myself quite regretful of, even to this day. And yet, I am almost certain that it was your last King in the North, Torren Stark, who bent the knee to my ancestor, Aegon Targaryen, in exchange for both his life and the lives of the Northmen,” she states, her tone measured—confident. “Torren Stark swore fealty to House Targaryen in perpetuity. Are these facts of mine wrong?”

 

Davos coughs again, clearing his throat. “I… I was not there, Your Grace.”

 

Queen Daenerys turns reluctantly to appraise him, a question in her eyes. “And you are… ?”

 

“Ah!” Davos rushes to introduce himself. “Ser Davos Seaworth, Your Grace. Not a lord. Apologies for the Flea Bottom accent.”

 

Queen Daenerys smiles, doll-like and feigned—Sansa’s not quite sure whether to revere or spite her. “No apologies necessary, Ser Davos.”

 

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

 

“Now, in light of Torren Stark’s pledge to House Targaryen, I would venture to say this: An oath, is an oath. Would you disagree?”

 

“No, Your Grace,” both Davos and Sansa say in tandem, humble and respectful. 

 

Queen Daenerys nods. “And, as for the issue of ‘perpetuity’—this term means ‘forever,' would you disagree?”

 

“No, Your Grace.”

 

“So, I assume, my Lady, that you are here to bend the knee and pledge fealty to House Targaryen, now and forever?”

 

Sansa resists the urge to squirm under Queen Daenerys’ penetrating gaze. “I am not, Your Grace.”

 

“How unfortunate,” Daenerys muses, as if the matter is of little consequence to her. “You have travelled all this way to break faith with House Targaryen?”

 

“Respectfully, Your Grace, I would not see fit to call this a ‘break’ of faith. Your father burned my grandfather alive. My uncle, as well,” Sansa counters evenly, observing the slight twitch in Daenerys’ eye with keen interest. "Had he not fallen at Jaime Lannister’s sword, many agree he would have seen the Seven Kingdoms burn in a hail of dragon fire.”

 

Daenerys tilts her head, regarding Sansa with quiet care. “Is that what you believe as well, my Lady?”

 

Missandei’s brow furrows upon hearing Daenerys’ question—rather quickly, Sansa can ascertain that that particular query was not on the ‘script,’ so to speak. 

 

(She is rather unsure as to what she is meant to do with that information.)

 

Regardless, Sansa keeps her composure. “I would not dare to speculate, Your Grace.”

 

“You would not dare to speculate in the presence of the Mad King’s descendant, or you would not dare to speculate at all?”

 

Sansa keeps her gaze steady, knowing Daenerys has presented her with something of a trick question. “History is but the winner’s narrative, Your Grace. The losers are seldom treated fairly—that is, if they are treated with any sort of fairness at all. I would be a fool to trust the records of men who raped and slaughtered the innocents in order to triumph; I cannot imagine they would object to perverting the truth in wake of the deplorable deeds they committed to be the tellers of history.”

 

Daenerys simply stares—and, for the first time since their meeting, Sansa knows she has Daenerys’ full attention.

 

“You have known hardship, Lady Stark,” Daenerys observes—a brash assumption, and yet, a true one all the same.

 

Sansa clenches her jaw, gaze hardening. “We all have our share of horrors to endure, Your Grace.”

 

Daenerys hums, eyes alight with reserved interest—it’s horribly familiar to Sansa as she remembers Cersei, the shrewd gleam in her eye, the manner in which she played with Sansa as if she were nothing more than a doll, her "little dove” to torture and manipulate as she saw fit.

 

In order to maintain her composure, Sansa must perpetually remind herself that Daenerys is not Cersei, that there likely is not, nor will there ever be, another woman like unto Cersei Lannister. 

 

It is not an easy feat. 

 

“Will you dine with me, Lady Stark?” Daenerys questions after a brief silence, seeming oblivious to the curious glances both Tyrion and Missandei send her way as a result. 

 

Well-versed in royal decorum, Sansa knows very well she cannot say ‘No’… and yet, there lies something within her, a kindling of desire she thought long dead (surely well before Ramsay Bolton ever laid eyes upon her), that urges her to say ‘Yes,’ urges her to _know_ the Dragon Queen with silver hair and a warm smile, in such a way she has never truly known another before. 

 

It births uneasiness in her heart, an uncomfortable churning in her gut—and yet, she nods, bowing her head graciously, never one to disobey a Queen’s command. “I would be honored, Your Grace.”

 

— — 

 

They dine alone that evening, without Ser Davos, without Tyrion, without a Queen’s Guard. 

 

Furthermore, the room in which they dine is modest—small, almost, in comparison to the wide and spacious rooms of the castle, the polished table short and square-shaped, the lighting low and intimate. 

 

It strikes Sansa as odd, but she knows she would do well not to question it. 

 

“Lady Sansa,” Daenerys speaks, swirling her wine in a single hand—the simple movement, so like unto Cersei’s, sends a shiver down Sansa’s spine. “May I ask you something?”

 

Sansa nods, taking an unassuming sip of the blood-red wine—it’s tangy and sweet, with an overwhelmingly sour aftertaste that causes Sansa’s shoulders to tense in displeasure; yet, she covets the clouds of intoxication that descend upon her mind—a necessary evil, she surmises. “Always, Your Grace.”

 

“‘Always,’” Daenerys repeats in something of a purr before taking a generous sip of wine from an ordinary silver goblet, her blue-green gaze glinting in the low candle-light. “I confess, I cherish the sound of that.”

 

Sansa feels a flush spreading across her cheeks, one she’s far too weary to bother fighting. 

 

“But, my question,” Daenerys continues. "Do you fancy yourself Queen in the North?”

 

A smile quirks at Sansa’s lips, genuine and honest in spite of herself. “Royalty… does not suit me, Your Grace.”

 

Daenerys tilts her head, intrigued. “And why is that, my Lady?”

 

“Sansa,” she corrects Daenerys on a whim, her flush deepening as Daenerys’ lips curl into a lazy grin. 

 

“Sansa,” the Dragon Queen repeats, and Sansa wonders briefly if she’s floating. “So, _Sansa_ —why does royalty not suit you?"

 

(Later, in the safety of her self-imposed isolation, she will tell herself it was merely the wine that birthed such irrational boldness.)

 

Sansa bites her lip, taking another humble sip of wine, feeling a pleasant dizziness permeating her thoughts—though, not so muddled as to loosen her tongue. 

 

“Many reasons, Your Grace,” she answers carefully, thought behind every word. “Politics are… messy. Ambiguous.”

 

“You are not fond of ambiguity?”

 

“I believe it’s a necessary evil—far more necessary than many would have themselves believe,” she pauses, stopping herself before she can say too much (a problem she very rarely has). "But, no, Your Grace, I am not fond of ambiguity.”

 

Daenerys nods, taking another slow drink of wine, her burning gaze never leaving Sansa. “I am not fond of it, either.” There’s silence for a long moment, in which Daenerys stands from her seat, leaving her goblet upon the table and striding elegantly over to approach Sansa until she is at her side and looking down upon her, eyes blazing in the candle-light with an intensity that Sansa cannot quite define but causes her heart to beat faster all the same. “Might I be blunt with you, Sansa?”

 

Sansa blinks up at her, lips slightly parted. “Of course, Your Grace.”

 

Daenerys’ lips twitch. “‘Always’?”

 

Sansa flushes deeply, ducking her chin even when she knows not to—but a moment later, gentle fingers are finding their place beneath her chin, guiding her gaze deliberately back up to meet Daenerys’; Sansa’s thighs clench together beneath her dress of their own accord as her cheeks burn hotly under the Queen’s meticulous inspection.

 

“Y-Yes, Your Grace,” Sansa manages, inwardly cursing herself for her stumble. “Always."

 

Daenerys nods, looking pleased—and then, she’s leaning down to press her lips gently against Sansa’s, fingers traveling delicately along pale skin to cup Sansa’s jaw, the feel of it soft and warm and _sweet_ in a way Sansa has never known. 

 

The kiss is… heady, exhilarating, and Sansa finds herself entirely unsure of what else to do but lean willingly into it, surrendering herself to the Queen’s soft hands and softer lips, losing herself in the unfamiliar feeling of euphoric exaltation that has little to do with the wine in her belly, and everything to do with Daenerys. 

 

All too soon, the Queen is gently pulling away, nose grazing warmly against Sansa’s, eyes wide and pupils blown with… desire? Sansa would not dare to dream. 

 

“I am not my father,” Daenerys whispers to her, warm breath ghosting over Sansa’s tingling lips, their close proximity nothing short of breathtaking. “I will not force myself upon you. If I have overstepped, I would have you tell me. Now.”

 

Sansa looks up at Daenerys, at her _Queen_ , with scarcely concealed arousal, her breaths coming in short, desperate pants. “You are not, Your Grace, I assur—“

 

She is halted by another sweeping kiss, one Sansa is all too happy to concede herself to, the Queen’s lips tasting of seasoned wine and a sweetness that is entirely her own—it has a terrifying but undoubtedly pleasant heat pooling low in Sansa’s belly, begging for a sort of release she has never known, the flames of her desire stoking themselves with every thrilling press of Daenerys’ wine-soaked lips. 

 

It is not until later, when the two of them are tangled in Daenerys’ luxurious sheets, entirely nude and dotted with droplets of dewy sweat, her head spinning from their joint unabashed self-indulgence, that Sansa understands that fire for what it is: lust. Desire. _Wanting_.

 

She likes it, she thinks.

 

(She is not sure—however, she likes Daenerys, and maybe they are one and the same.) 

 

— —

**Author's Note:**

> as always, feedback would be awesome and thanks for reading <3
> 
> (my [tumblr](https://psyches.co.vu/))


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